


Untitled Tumblr Fanfic #1

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Lucrezia, as a part of her Tumblr challenge. Hope you like it, lovely!</p><p>Thorin finds himself struggling to cope with a whole new challenge on the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thorin wakes up feeling uncomfortable. Everything feels cramped and his shirt has ridden up his stomach in the night. He tries to turn over and stretch in his bedroll but discovers he can’t – there’s something blocking his movement, like an arm trapped behind him and twisting the wrong way as he moves.

He sits up with a grunt and immediately has to reach out a hand to support himself upright. Something’s very wrong. There’s a weight on his back that wasn’t there before, twisted, curled up unnaturally, the discomfort now palpable in his shoulder blades.

The sound of firewood being dropped to the ground makes his head shoot up.

Kili is standing in front of him, mouth ajar, staring at something just behind his shoulder. 

“Uncle, what happened to your b –“

A long knife is in his hand in the next split second, first tearing his shirt open – an animal, he thinks, some dark creature, a parasite attached to his back in his sleep – and then reaching over his own shoulder, stabbing blindly at whatever repulsive thing is feeding off him.

A howl of pain surprises Thorin as it tears from his own throat, red hot agony shooting from the damaged tissue and down his shoulder blade. Numb fingers drop the knife and he instinctively curls up into himself while the thing on his back flares out, tearing through the rags of his shirt and unfurling to its full size.

“F-Fili! Oin!” He hears his nephew call out and run towards the others, as the shock sets in. Whatever this Thing is, it’s enormous, partially blocking the sun around him.

“Uncle?” Fili is beside him in the next moment, an arm moving to steady him.

“Let me take a look, lad.” That’s Oin, pushing Fili away and reaching to touch the Thing behind Thorin tentatively.

But the Thing clearly doesn’t want to be touched. It flaps furiously, long muscles moving fluidly under the skin, stretching as far as they can go. Thorin gags at the renewed pain, gripping his naked shoulder with his hand and noticing something dripping wetly onto his fingers and running down his tailbone. 

By now others have gathered but are keeping their distance, a shocked look on their faces, none of them eager to approach. He catches Dwalin’s face in the crowd, their eyes locking.

“Get this thing off me.” Thorin spits out through gritted teeth.

Dwalin approaches cautiously. “Calm down. Calm your breathing.” The warrior says, watching the Thing, one hand outstretched. 

Thorin does his best but it feels _wrong_. The Thing feels huge and embedded deep within his body, like it’s now a part of him. He can’t feel any wound in his back at the moment – the venom has probably numbed it to give the parasite more time to feed – but he imagines it will hurt when they extract the claws. He might not survive the blood loss or the venom no doubt coursing through his veins now, but he’s damned if he lets the beast use him like this a second longer. 

The panic is quickly setting in – he can’t see it, can’t catch it, rip it off himself. Rip it off, chop it off, hack it to pieces, anything, just get the damned Thing off him!

He feels the touch like an electric current running down his back, when Dwalin finally manages to catch the edge of the Thing, holding it in place in an iron grip. A moment later, he catches another part of it.

Thorin gasps. “Come on, I’m not going to break!”

“Easy Thorin. Easy.” Dwalin sounds reassuring, but Thorin can’t understand why he won’t just tear the Thing off. He trashes wildly, agony exploding anew. If only he had Orcrist within his reach...

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” Dwalin is saying, and others are now reaching to help him hold It in place while the sense of panic grows within Thorin, conflicting impulses shooting through his skull. Get it off, don’t touch it, just make it stop!

Before he knows what he’s doing the Thing is flapping again and Thorin lets out a string of ugly curses in Khuzdul. He tries to pull away from the steady murmur of “easy, calm down, just calm down Thorin”, but is soon overcome by the bodies piling on top of him and the Thing.

Something that stings and soothes simultaneously is being applied to the wound and in one terrifying moment Thorin wonders how he can feel it. 

And then everything goes to hell.

He kicks, bites, scratches and throws punches at anyone unfortunate enough to get within his range. He can feel the weight of his companions lifting one by one, rolling away or thrown to the side by his blows until he realises that there is but one straddling his waist, pinning his arms to the ground above his head.

“Thorin! Thorin, listen to me, look at me, curse your royal arse!” Dwalin is bellowing above him, eventually head butting his forehead to get his attention.

Thorin sees stars and throws his head around to stop the ringing in his ears. 

“Touch it, you monumental pillock! Touch it!” Dwalin insists, releasing the grip on one of his wrists.

“Fuck you!” Thorin spits out in Khuzdul, introducing his friend to his right hook. Satisfied with the glare this earns him, he reaches above his head to feel the Thing. He may be reacting on impulse but this doesn’t change the fact that he trusts Dwalin with his life. 

The back of his hand comes to rest on something soft and slightly warm. Alive no doubt, but of a very different texture to skin, bone or hair. The feeling finally clicks into place when his hand comes away with a single grey feather held between his fingers. 

“Wings.” He stares at Dwalin uncomprehendingly.

“Aye. _Your_ wings.” His friend enlightens him before punching him in the nose by the way of revenge.


	2. Chapter 2

As it turns out storming purposefully is rather difficult when you have something about third of your own weight attached to your shoulder blades. What makes it even worse is the fact that he’s never had to use his back muscles consciously before, and so the wings keep flapping awkwardly, triggered by the tiniest of movements.

“Gandalf!” He may be hindered in his climb up the mountain path, which the wizard had previously taken to go on a lookout, but he’s damned if it will stop him. “What is the meaning of this?!”

The old wizard looks genuinely surprised to see him in his current state. “Well, the most obvious conclusion is that you are meant to fly.” He offers with a hint of smile on his face. “However did you come by these?”

“Quit playing games with me! I want them gone!” He tries to sound stern, but at the back of his mind doubt is beginning to stir – Gandalf’s reaction isn’t what he was hoping for. 

“My dear fellow, I can see that you do, but I hardly think you will be able to will them away. I mean, they are rather large.”

Thorin makes a move to punch his old friend and Gandalf takes a step back, rising his hands up in the air in a defensive gesture. 

“Alright, alright. Tell me what happened. I cannot help you unless I know what I’m dealing with.”

“You mean to say that this is not your doing?” He struggles to keep the despair out of his voice.

“And why would I do something like this, hm? What possible benefit could I envisage in giving you wings? You’re not likely to be able to fly our company to Erebor, are you?”

“Who then?” Thorin cuts to the chase, annoyed at the gathering audience of the dwarves who have followed him.

“I do not know. Tell me what happened.” The wizard repeats, now exasperated. 

“I fell asleep with four limbs and I woke up with six,” Thorin snaps impatiently. “These were cramped under my shirt. I thought it was a parasite of some sort, so I tried to stab it. I only wish that it was. Now, can you remove them?”

Gandalf seems deep in thought for a moment, gesturing for him to turn around so he can touch the skin where the feathers begin. It aches like a healing wound.

“These have sprung from within. Think Thorin, has anything unusual happened to you recently? Have you been involved with any magic that you might not have recognised, have you eaten anything funny?”

Thorin feels a bit sick at the thought of the wings growing within his flesh, festering, waiting to – to hatch. Now that he thinks about it, his back did ache for a while now, but he blamed it on the long days spent in the saddle.

“Not since that drivel the Elves have fed us.” 

Fucking Elves, he thinks. And wouldn’t it be just the funniest thing if the rest of his company grew tails and horns too and maybe started to cackle?

Gandalf throws him a sharp look, but Thorin isn’t in the mood for a lecture on political correctness. “Get them off, or so help me Mahal, I will –“

“I can’t.” Gandalf shrugs, looking far too amused for Thorin’s liking. “This is not my magic so I’m not sure how to unlock it. If it is magic at all… I have never heard of a spell that would have you grow wings.”

Thorin deflates a little. “Then what use are you? Is there nothing in those old books of yours that tells you how to do anything of practical value?! All you ever do is preach and meddle with affairs of others.” It comes out harsher than he intended, but the words have been at the back of his mind for a while and he is angry that his most obvious solution has failed. He feels he has very little choice in what he must do next and Thorin doesn’t like having limited choices – this is how mistakes are made. 

For once the wizard is silent and so is his company. 

“Magic is not a force to be used lightly.” Gandalf offers eventually. “It is like walking into a storm of enormous power, waiting for you to slip so it can control you, possess you and use you to do what it’s designed to do – alter things.” His face softens. “I cannot help you, but for helping you learn how to accept your wings. For that – and if my meddling has ever been unwelcome – I am truly sorry. I will however say this, Thorin Oakenshield – these things normally happen for a reason. You would be wise to find that reason within you.”

That last bit is lost on Thorin, as he storms back down the ridge and into their camp. He accepts that the wizard has good reasons not to help him – perhaps he truly isn’t able to. But none of this changes his resolve.

“Dwalin, with me.” He spits out, reaching for Gloin’s heavy battle axe. “The rest of you stay here. I want everything packed and ready for the road by the time we’re back.”

Dwalin arches an eyebrow but follows his King without a word. 

“I thought we were done with trying to remove them from your person?” He tries calmly, when they reach a clearing in the woods, a good while away from the camp. 

“We will be done when they are removed. Dwalin, I am the rightful king of Erebor. I cannot have wings and expect anyone to take me seriously! Not to mention how much I would slow us down on the road or in battle.” He explains patiently, sitting himself next to a large flat rock, doing his best to spread one wing flat on top of it. 

He will need Dwalin with him on this before it is done. He can’t have his resolve crumbling away before the other wing is hacked away too. And if this means Dwalin will have to hold him down or knock him unconscious then so be it. 

If it means that this thing that has only just begun between the two of them will be killed among the blood and feathers and bone, as Dwalin butchers his back and proceeds to hate himself for it, then so be it too – Thorin thinks bitterly, passing his friend an axe.

And that’s just it, isn’t it? He winces, as the truth hits him too hard for comfort. He has allowed himself to get close to someone, forgetting that it is a responsibility greater than that upon a King. Ruling people is easy; allowing others to rule your heart is the hardest thing Thorin has ever done.

Dwalin will hate him if those damned things on his back hinder their quest, he will hate him for making him hack them off, and yet Thorin can’t bring himself to trust anyone else to so much as touch the wings. An order he should have never given, a situation he should have never put himself in. 

So be it. 

“Come on, you great, big oaf. Or have I chosen the wrong dwarf for this task?” He taunts, closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Write a drabble - they said. It will be quick and comes with a pic - they said. Seven pages later... :P
> 
> And so it appears this will be a multi chapter in the end. So be it ~


End file.
